The Founding of Hogwarts
by Christine Malec
Summary: What makes 5 of the most powerful witches and wizards of their day retreat from the world to teach magic? 11th Century Europe is a dangerous place, even for a sorcerer. In chapter1, we meet the unnamed wizard without whom the Hogwarts 4 would never have come together.
1. Song of the Solitary Sorcerer

Chapter One

The old man frowned when he saw the goatherd. For many years he had been engaged in a vigorous campaign to discourage the folk about from frequenting the area. He'd had more than enough of people and their machinations in his long life, and he went to some lengths to deflect attention away from himself. It was true that now and then he did lose control and let his irritation get the better of him, but people rarely got hurt, and his tactics were mostly harmless. He was too apathetic today to enjoy much at the expense of the credulous goatherd however, so settled for leaning ostentatiously on his staff and looking feeble.

Hoisting a vacant expression onto his face, he assumed a stooped posture and ran gnarled looking fingers through his straggly beard. On the whole, he enjoyed the aspect of a dotty old man he projected for the benefit of unwelcome visitors, but the beard was hard. His beard was, in actuality, full, even luxuriant, and of a glossy black. He thought it his best physical feature by far, and he was vain about it. He considered that hiding its glory was a high price to pay for anonymity. But, he reasoned with himself when feeling especially aggrieved about it, if he was going to make his home here at the northern end of the world in order to escape tiresome people and their trivial little lives, he must keep his beard as a purely private enjoyment.

His attenuated campaign of unhospitality had not been without success, so although his guise of a creaky old man looked harmless enough, the goatherd sidled out of view again with a fearful backward glance or two. The old man grunted with satisfaction and straightened, allowing his features to lose the mask of decrepitude and senility he showed to his unwelcome neighbours.

He went for weeks or even months sometimes without seeing anyone at all, which was exactly the way he liked it. This morning however, the look of apprehension on the goatherd's face put an extra spring in his step. He gave his staff a jaunty swing as he walked along, glad to know his efforts towards being feared and disliked weren't going to waste.

The snares yielded sufficiently for his needs, and he returned to what he still enjoyed thinking of as his castle. It wasn't so much the castle part that he never really wanted to get used to, but rather the fact that it was his. Oh he'd lived in castles, too many to remember, but always someone else's. His status, no matter how revered or respected, had always been that of guest: honored guest to be sure, but always there for another's purpose, a visitor in another man's home. He could never say, "I've always hated that tapestry, fob it off on one of my inferiors with bad taste and weave me another," or, "This stew isn't fit for a hippogriff, bring me something palatable or it's the mines for the lot of you!" No, he'd always had to just take what he was given, he, the greatest wizard in all of Britain, in all of the world he'd wager.

This castle though, this was his, and he'd built it himself, using magic to levitate and shape the stone. It had taken him quite a long time it was true, but he had time. There was nothing else he wanted to do, nowhere else he wanted to go. He'd seen and done it all, and now he wanted to be left alone.

As he approached his castle, he had a fleeting wish to see it as muggles saw it. He knew the enchantments and concealments he had laid on it, but he always felt just a little put out because he could never experience the full effect.

Any muggle who strayed here would see nothing but a broken down ruin, unpromising, depressing, even a bit eerie. (Eerie was subtle, he was still working on that part.) Their understandable disinterest would be augmented by a sudden feeling there was something they'd neglected to do elsewhere, and they'd be off, castle forgotten. In fact, the need for little demonstrations of eccentricity had declined steadily: a job well done he told himself as he climbed the steps to the door.

He passed the hares on to his house elf, who headed kitchenwards with them immediately. He looked around. His eye was caught by his chess set. Really there was no reason to have it set out he reflected, running nimble fingers through his perfectly groomed beard, but he left it nonetheless. Occasionally, on winter nights, he'd play from memory games shared in days passed, games with kings and games with friends. He shook his head. It was a beautiful set, made of ivory and gold, too beautiful not to be seen. His house elf made a tempting repast with the hares, and the old man made an early night of it.

That night, greatly to his annoyance, the old man dreamed. For you and me this might be an event of little moment, but for this particular old man dreams were a serious business. In the days that followed he did his best to dismiss what he had seen as the result of an overly rich sauce prepared by his house elf, who had a heavy hand with the cream. Try as he might though, he failed to convince himself.

He had, he was sure, long since become immune to fetching young women with flaxen hair and sweet smiles. Still, the young lady in question, the one who began appearing with some regularity in his dreams, was in danger. He knew it. If something wasn't done….

At this point the old man would call for his house elf to bring one of the bottles of Burgundian wine he took such care never to be without. It was no small feat to round up enough sturdy owls to transport such treasures, and he tried to stick to his own home-brewed ale as a rule, but this was a special case. He wanted to blot the image of the young woman from his mind, and numb his thoughts so that the niggling sense of worry and obligation would shatter under the careless boot of inebriation. This worked right enough, but only till morning.

One afternoon, feeling restless and morose, he wrapped himself in his cloak and went to sit on the stone bench in the courtyard. He looked grumpily round, then caused a collection of small stones to pile themselves at his feet. It was so long since he had ceased to require a wand to do magic that he forgot to be grateful for warm hands tucked under his arms.

He saw that the patchy black and white cat sat primly watching him from a distance. He frowned. He didn't like cats, never had. This one, though surprisingly sleek for a stray, seemed particularly unprepossessing. Some cats at least could boast elegant colouring or obvious breeding, but this one merely showed an unremarkable pattern of markings, and a resistance to his many attempts to shoe it off his property. The cat would sidle nonchalantly out of reach of his boot, and might drift away for days at a time, but it would always return, indifferent but persistent. He would have banished it to the barn if he'd had a barn, but he settled for giving it one contemptuous glance, then ignored it entirely.

Moodily, the old man levitated a stone to rest on the edge of an empty fountain some distance away. He caused another stone to rise up, float several arm spans away, then shoot violently forward, knocking the first stone forcefully into the air, sending it tumbling, its adversary falling with it. When his mind was focused, he could fire stones off the edge of the fountain at the rate of one per heartbeat for a good long time. This afternoon however, his thoughts were distracted and his aim poor. Finally, he gathered the whole pile and flung it testily and with some force against the outside of the stone basin.

For a while he considered venturing out in search of a hapless villager to torment. He could become invisible and pelt them with dung, or send a rabid dog into the middle of a sheep herd to scatter it, or send someone's laundry sailing off the line to land in a stagnant pond. Unfortunately for him, none of these diversions, no matter how entertaining they might have been in the past, offered any real reprieve from what troubled him. He had not chosen this spot at random. After staring grumpily at the basin a while longer, he got up with a deep sigh mingling anger and resignation, to get water.

After brewing the henbane tea, he drank the cup down, and filled the basin to the brim with icy water from the well. He stood before the basin, and, not without reluctance, let his gaze sink into the watery surface and his mind go blank.

If he had thought that soliciting clear-seeing in the water would improve his night's sleep, he was sadly mistaken. The dreams grew less frequent, but his fretful mind no longer required them. To his disgust, he found himself engaged in the same argument he had with himself every hundred years or so.

He had come here to get away from the tumultuous world full of people with their ambitions, greeds, loves, hates, and endless goings to and fro. He desired only solitude, quiet, a regular supply of ale and Burgundian wine, the excellent ministrations of his house elf, and the occasional spot of bating the locals. If he troubled himself with every guileless young woman in peril, witch or not, he would never have any peace.

At this point he would begin pacing in a distinctly unpeaceful manner. He would once again see the face of the woman before him, and, like distorted shadows cast by trolls, the dangers multiplying behind her. If she hadn't been a witch he might have been able to dismiss the whole thing from his mind. The thing was that he knew what it was like to live among muggles, whose admiration and gratitude could so easily turn to suspicion, fear and betrayal.

Once he made up his mind to act, he did so with vigor. The sooner he could discharge his conscience, he felt, the sooner he could return to his daily routine of reading, eating, drinking, taking constitutionals through the rugged landscape surrounding his castle, the occasional small terrorizing of the local folk, and sleeping the sleep of the cozy hermit: unruffled, untroubled, unmoved, undisturbed.

His task began with a book. It was an impressive book. He felt a gratifying sense of self-satisfaction as he laid it on the table before him and studied the illustrated cover. He was less accomplished as an illustrator than as a writer of magical tomes, but he still experienced a pleasant thrill of pride as he read the illuminated title: Metamorph Magi, Enchant Your Way to Anonymity.

Part of the book's magic was that if a muggle looked at it, the title would appear to be, Delineated Details: An Old Man's Guide to Great Grammar. In general, he thought this a sufficiently tedious title to discourage even the most thorough scholar. Nevertheless, the book's magic went further. If a muggle opened it, the book would appear to contain a rambling and intolerably pedantic examination of verb conjugations. If the reader was a witch or wizard however, the proper title would appear on the book's cover, and an illuminated spell would be displayed on the first page. This spell, when spoken by the witch or wizard, would reveal the rest of the book's contents. This book was, the old man felt, one of his masterworks. It was a step-by-step guide to that most difficult of tasks, becoming a metamorph magus.

But its element of disguise barely scratched the surface of its powers. The book had a twin, a perfect copy, produced by magic. When both books were read at the same time, regardless of where in the world the books might be, a bond was formed between the readers. A less accomplished magus than the old man, which covered pretty much every witch and wizard alive he felt, wouldn't be aware of the connection immediately. The sorcerer of greater power would be able, for a time at least, to get inside the mind of the other reader, poke about a bit, even make a tweak here and there. In extreme need, a limited amount of communication was possible, but only at the discretion of the more powerful wizard.

The old man had parted company with the copy many years ago. He had left it in the keeping of a sorceress of whom he had been especially fond. He had no idea of the book's fate, but he liked to think that the sorceress, who had had quite a fondness for him as well, would have seen to its care.

If his plan for relieving his vague sense of moral responsibility went as he hoped, the copy would currently be in the hands of a capable witch or wizard. He intended to establish a rapport with this individual, send them a few highly specific and compelling dreams of their own, then call it a deed well done, and return to his life of reclusivity and sloth. This wasn't a task to be accomplished in a day, but he was a patient man.


	2. Rowena, the Raven and the Metamorph Magi

Chapter Two

Rowena woke with a start. She had dreamed of the flaxen haired woman again. She sat up on her straw pallet and rubbed her eyes. She normally didn't remember her dreams, but these were of such clarity and vividness that it was as though she'd actually lived them. She viewed such excesses as signs of an undisciplined mind, and frowned in deep dissatisfaction with herself as she rose in search of a drink of water. Her throat was dry, and the dream had left her twitchy and restless.

The dreams had started harmlessly enough, uncommonly vivid and coherent, but not menacing. She was like a silent observer of the other woman's daily life. Along with flaxen hair, the woman had a pleasantly rounded figure and a remarkably sweet smile. Rowena watched as the woman tended a well-organized herb garden, milked several goats, used magic to heal an owl with an injured wing, and dispensed remedies of many kinds to a succession of folk who sought her out.

Over several nights, the dreams had become less coherent but much more alarming. The pleasant-faced woman seemed threatened from many sides by dangers Rowena couldn't quite name. Standing, cup in hand in the darkness before dawn, Rowena exhaled sourly through her nose. She didn't need to be an interpreter of dreams to know what dangers might threaten a witch who took little care to hide her abilities. Something in the other woman's guileless expression told Rowena that a prudent caution was not one of the healer's gifts.

Rowena slipped quietly between the straw pallets where other women slept the sleep of the untroubled. She made a stealthy way into the tiny scriptorium. She wouldn't be so unthrifty as to waste a candle on such a frivolous errand, so she felt her way in the dark, following along the table until she came to the shelves where books and scrolls rested: an island of reliable wisdom and calm in a world that often felt too complicated to be born. She rested her hands flat on the surface of the book that had been preoccupying her of late.

The other sisters couldn't imagine what Rowena found so compelling about an old dry book dedicated to the minutiae of grammar, but they were accustomed to her idiosyncrasies, and left her to it. She always accomplished her days work of copying, was studious, quiet, disciplined and dedicated. She was certain that none of the other sisters were capable of imagining what she found so engrossing in the grammatical tome. She didn't judge them for this. Imagination wasn't anything she valued.

The book had come into her hands not long before. Her mother had died several years ago, and only last harvest, a box of her mother's possessions had come to light. As many did, Rowena's mother had chosen to leave her valued possessions in the safe-keeping of the Priory. She had not told Rowena this, and the box, having been lost and forgotten, had only recently been rediscovered.

Rowena had recognized the book's true identity immediately. With the discipline of years, she kept her face expressionless as she examined it in front of the prioress. The moment she was alone with the book however, she fell on it like a starved child on a minced pie. Despite her dedication to scholarship and her pursuit of any and all literature, she had come across very few books of magic. Anyway, such books were risky, especially here. Each time she so much as touched the book, she could feel the power of the magician who was its author. She delighted in the cunning and artistry of the mind that had devised such a skillful disguise.

She had been given some tutelage from her mother, so the spell on the first page of the book presented no obstacle to her. The magic beyond that though was a different matter. When she was alone in the scriptorium, she would complete her day's work by magic, then spend the time till nightfall poring over the book, puzzling over the complex instructions, and wondering if she dared try any of the spells. Only last week she'd had a terrible turn when, having accidentally transformed her long dark hair into bright feathers, she'd been temporarily unable to change it back. The panic engendered by this near catastrophe had scared her badly.

Before coming to live here, she had spent many sleepless nights agonizing over the decision to do so. She had given up much in exchange for the safety and opportunities for scholarship it afforded. She had forced herself to accept many onerous obligations in order to be here, had spent time earning the trust of her sisters. The thought of losing her hard-won position because of a reckless mistake was intolerable. She vowed to go more slowly, to be more careful.

Her mother had been dismayed at Rowena's choice. They had argued about it. Her mother, a less serious-minded woman, pleasure-loving and easy going, couldn't imagine choosing the life Rowena contemplated. "You'll be shut up with the same people day in and day out!" She exclaimed.

They were sitting companionably by the fireside in the single room of their cottage. A spindle hovered in midair beside the older woman as a smooth length of green thread emerged from it, rolling itself into a neat ball on the table. Rowena, whose task it was to make the soup for their evening meal, caused a spoon to stir the caldron in precise circles as she sat across from her mother, leaning forward and speaking with intensity.

"How else can a woman be a scholar?" She asked passionately. "You know that's all I care about. I don't care about children or husbands or pretty things." She cast a glance around the cottage, half impatient half indulgent, taking in the many signs of ornamentation her mother managed to produce from their meager income.

"You're my only surviving child. Am I never to have a granddaughter then?"

Rowena's eye's softened and she reached out to lay her hand briefly on her mother's arm, almost in apology. Rowena rarely showed affection. Her mother sighed, and allowed the spindle to come to rest on the table.

"Ah well, it's for you to choose. If that is what you wish, then I will not hinder you."

Rowena smiled. She had been prepared to defy her mother if she must, but she was glad not to have to. Also, she was glad not to have to bring forward the most grim of her many reasons for choosing as she had. The tide of belief and custom was turning in Britain. Magic, once revered and sought after, wasn't quite so stylish anymore. In fact, it could be downright dangerous in the wrong company.

Rowena's mother knew this as well as anyone, but she would not be careful. Rowena had remonstrated with her many times over indiscretions, but her mother would just laugh. Only last month, Rowena had watched in horror as her mother stopped the cheese maker's youngest son grievously injuring himself, by magically arresting his fall from the limb of a cherry tree he'd been forbidden to climb.

"Would you have had me let him break his leg or worse?" her mother had asked in shock.

Rowena frowned. "He's a horrid little boy and he's been told over and over not to climb that tree," she said.

"You haven't answered my question," her mother replied. For a light-minded woman, she was capable of a logical rigor in conversation that Rowena had learned from, but which she didn't always appreciate.

Rowena hated above all else to be at a loss for words, or incapable of answering a question. This, however, was a riddle beyond her skill. Should magic be used to save others from suffering, even if the potential victim was unworthy? Even if it put the sorceress herself at risk?

Choosing to sidestep the question again, Rowena said, "If the wrong person saw you do such a thing, folk might begin to mutter against you. You yourself have told me tales of witches and wizards being driven away by folk who feared or mistrusted them. Sometimes an even worse fate awaits those accused of dark practices." Practise

"What dark practice is there in saving a child, no matter how wretched, from injury or death?" It was an argument they had, in one form or another, at least once a season, and it always ended with her mother saying blithely, "I'm a sorceress, no one can harm me!" Rowena hoped passionately that this was true, but she wasn't sure.

Now, standing in the darkness, her hand resting on the cool cover of the Metamorph Magi, she felt a stab of longing for her dead mother. Friendly as the other sisters were, Rowena had no true friend among them, and she missed the intimacy of having someone to love, who loved her.

The next few weeks offered little opportunity for scholarship, mundane or magical. It was planting season, and all hands were needed in the fields, even hands which normally touched only parchment. During this time, Rowena's dreams receded into their former forgettable recesses. The physical fatigue of the work had its benefits. She hoped that this would be the end of the matter. Not long after her return to the scriptorium however, she was once again wakened by compelling but unfocussed sequences in which the fair haired woman was surrounded by forces that sought to harm her.

Although the sources of the threat were unclear, certain details of the woman's surroundings began to build in Rowena's mind until she felt sure she would recognize the village and the people in it if she encountered them in the living world. The woman wasn't far from the coast. The countryside she called home was hilly, and there was a Saxon castle somewhere nearby. Storms were violent, and sometimes caused destruction, or even a change in the shape of the coastline.

Rowena couldn't have said when or how she began to believe that the woman was real. By the time she thought to wonder how it had happened, it was too late. Rowena was not given to fanciful notions. In fact she found fanciful notions distasteful. She had never dreamed like this before, and she knew that her mother had sometimes learned things about the real world through dreams. The compelling vividness of the dreams convinced Rowena that they betokened something in the real world. This certainty was rivaled only by her fervent wish that they would go away.

One of the most disturbing aspects of these dreams was how oblivious the fair haired woman seemed to the danger that menaced her. The sweet smile that was her typical expression alternately charmed and infuriated Rowena. The woman began to seem like the younger sister Rowena had never had, and she longed to shriek warnings as the other woman dispensed charms and remedies with ingenuous disregard for the risks.

It was around this time that Rowena began noticing the raven. It didn't do anything showy, but ravens are ravens, and she noticed. The first time she saw it, it was perched on top of a barn, another raven next to it. Immediately she thought of Huginn and Muninn, the ravens of thought and memory. Thought, or perhaps memory, took to the wing, and Rowena didn't see it again. The raven's continued presence, combined with the dreams, were undermining the tranquility she'd come here to find, and distracting her from scholarship.

She began to get careless, a failing she loathed in others. One evening, thinking herself alone in the scriptorium, she used magic to prevent her candle from tipping over onto the manuscript she had just finished illuminating. She heard a gasp of shock behind her, and whirled to find she was not alone. She tried to say that she'd caught it with her hand, but she saw the incredulity mingled with fear. Nothing was said, but Rowena's place there, never warm, became distinctly cooler.

It was the incident with the raven that forced her hand. She'd been helping (reluctantly) with the milking, and some foolish village children were throwing stones at the raven, which had perched on the barn's roof. Rowena hadn't known what they were doing until she stepped out of the barn. If she'd had more time to think, she'd have done differently, but, seeing the bird about to be pegged off by little Willie, who had a vicious and accurate shot, she acted before thinking, another flaw she despised in others.

Using magic, she stopped the stone in midair and sent it back to tap Willie smartly on the forehead before falling to the ground at his feet. This time, it wasn't just one person seeing something odd in the half light of evening. There were witnesses: lots of them. In the shock of what she'd done, she lacked the presence of mind to dawn an astounded expression to match those of the people around her. Instead, they all looked stunned, while she alone looked guilty and frightened.

Some clarity returning at last, Rowena broke the awed silence, sounding as normal as she could, she upbraided the children for their idleness. Disliking children, she was fairly accomplished at upbraiding, and the children, like the adults, not knowing what to do or say, merely slunk off, muttering vaguely. Rowena Picked up her pail of milk, and made a remark about the weather before scuttling away.

After that, things began to be markedly uncomfortable for Rowena. She could feel tension building. No one had said anything yet, but instinct told her that her place there might no longer be a safe one. She had heard many stories from her mother of such times: when security turned to suspicion, and it became prudent or even necessary to move on.

She was not yet permanently committed to the house where she lived. When she asked, a peddler's family bound for the coast agreed she could travel with them. She had heard of an Abbey with a library there, and, having no other destination in mind, abandoned what she had expected to be safety and permanence. Folk were unflatteringly pleased to see her go. She held her head high as she left, but felt a twinge of sadness she was careful not to show.


	3. Salizar and the Saxon Soldier

Chapter Three

Salizar stood staring moodily out to sea. He had rowed himself out to one of the tiny islets in the archipelago off the mainland because he wanted to be alone to think. He stared at the water some distance away, and several fish rose to the surface. They began jumping out of the water in a very peculiar manner. Soon they were launching themselves at one another, waging a kind of incongruous and unnatural battle. Salizar quickly grew bored however, and allowed the fish to sink back into the sea.

Since his mother's death his discontent had been growing. She had had the seid magic, and as her son he had enjoyed some prestige in their small community. His own gifts had grown steadily, but somehow folk didn't revere him as they had his mother.

His sister, the new seid woman hadn't helped matters. She showed promise of being as powerful as their mother had been, but unlike their mother, distrusted Salizar, and showed him open contempt. As the Vala she was revered, and folk tended to believe what she believed. The more time went by the less there seemed to be for him here. The fact was he'd always felt like a bit of an outsider.

His father had come from lands far to the east, travelling with traders whose business took them past the southern coast of the land of the Fins. His father had dwelt for a season with the local seid woman, conducting a lucrative trade in dragon eggs, and eggs that grew into serpents the like of which had never been seen in those lands.

Their brief liaison had produced Salizar, a wizard of remarkable gifts, but a boy who garnered little liking. He mostly took after his mother in looks, but there was something odd about his features, a kind of mismatched inaccuracy, as though his face was the result of a sculptor with the palsy. If it had been only his appearance, the peaceable folk round about would have overlooked his oddity, but either as a result of feeling himself unwelcome, or because of some in-born character trait, he grew into an increasingly insular and occasionally morose person whom few sought out.

He spent long hours alone fiercely honing his magical gifts, learning to command the will of animals, and move objects without touching them. His control over snakes had come without trying, but he found he could command any animal if he tried hard enough.

Standing alone on the shore trying to look ahead into his future, he wondered where he should go. Living along a trade root was useful; it gave him choice. He was repelled by the idea of turning eastward. He had no desire to look backward to the place his absent father had come from. As there was nothing for him here, he determined to head west.

His decision made, he set speedily about implementing it. He tracked down a Gallic captain who was lately arrived and determined to depart soon. Salizar was a practiced oarsman and fisher, but he had no experience on the large sailing ships used for trade.

He Convinced the captain of his fitness as a deck hand by looking carefully into the other man's mind, and pulling out the correct answers to the captain's probing questions. Really he didn't have to work that hard at it. All it really required was the exertion of a little force on the captain's will, a nudge to make him do what Salizar wanted. Still, he would need to know a sailor's lore, so he took enough from the captain's thoughts to see him through the first few days of the voyage until he could learn.

Buoyed by his success Salizar's mood lightened. He spent the next few days looking around the small settlements with more affection than he'd ever felt for his home before. Already he felt himself a man-of-the-world, and this place merely a backwater on his way to greatness.

He spent his last night drinking with the motley collection of sailors, traders and locals who frequented the only alehouse, entertaining them with magic. The Vala would never make a show of her skills in this way, so the people didn't often get to see magic done. They were excited by his demonstrations, and vied with one another to refill his tankard.

With that jovial openness that can accompany the departure of someone whom most are glad to see the back of, they treated him with more friendliness than they had ever done before. He liked the feeling this gave him. He departed the following morning with a comfortable sense of superiority; this was not a bad place, but his destiny lay beyond it, he was sure.

The tasks of a sailor proved easy to mimic. The ship's company bore men from many lands, and Salizar was cautious about using magic to accomplish his duties. He used it freely to conceal his snake though. He never considered leaving this favoured companion behind, and the business of magical deflection and distraction was child's play to him.

Despite his pretensions he had never been more than a day's journey from his home, and gazed about him wide-eyed all the time. He couldn't really have been said to make friends in the months that followed, but, happy to be free of what now seemed a most limiting life, his spirits were high, and so if he had no blood brothers, he did have companions.

They'd been picking up information and rumors, so were not taken by surprise at the bustle of activity as they made their way into Norman ports. They found the coastal towns aswarm with men readying themselves to board a fleet of ships headed by the Norman Duke, who fancied himself heir to the English crown. Squeezing himself into a tavern overflowing with raucous soldiers, Salizar was exhilarated; this was life!

He found himself elbow to elbow with an extremely large blond man who was remarkable for his long hair, in defiance of local custom: a Swede, or possibly a Saxon. Salizar thought something about the man seemed familiar as they swapped stories, but since it was impossible that they had ever met, Salizar dismissed the notion.

Soon they were taking turns buying rounds. Salizar found that he needed to discreetly vanish ale from his tankard at regular intervals in order to keep up with the fellow, who gave his name as Godric. The feeling of familiarity persisted as the night wore on, and Salizar wondered if this was what it felt like to have a friend. Godric was a soldier. He was impatiently waiting to set out with William the Norman, to help his lord achieve his rightful place as king of England.

Salizar's eyes were drawn repeatedly to the sword at Godric's side. In Salizar's home swords of any kind were valuable, and this one was the most richly ornamented he'd ever seen. Godric followed his gaze and squared his shoulders proudly. Salizar was ready to admit the sword was something special, but when Godric began to boast of his exploits, and to set himself as the most fearsome fighter in the whole of William's army, Salizar let his skepticism show.

"Do you doubt what I say?" Godric blustered.

Salizar said nothing, but his eyes didn't shift away. "There are many ways of fighting," he said.

Godric's face showed the beginnings of contempt. "I like you friend, I truly do, but surely you're not saying that a fellow like you could challenge a fighter like me? I was nearly sworn a Housecarl to Harold Godwinson!"

Salizar didn't like the way Godric was looking at him. Godric was comparing his own powerful frame to Salizar's shorter and more wiry one. To Salizar however, the glance seemed to recall the distaste which many in his life had shown on seeing his unusual features. A lifetime of reaction, not to mention a considerable quantity of ale made Salizar straighten his own shoulders and say loudly, "I'll say that! I wouldn't hesitate to challenge you."

Godric stood up menacingly. "Outside then!" He roared.

Salizar hadn't meant things to come to this, and wasn't at all convinced that his sketchy knife skills would serve him at all, but the arrogant, self-satisfied expression on Godric's face made him fire up at once. He turned and strode determinedly out of the tavern to the courtyard behind.

Both men, fired by ale and by the general spirit of aggression all round them, began a flurry of parries and faints that was furious, and lasted longer than even Salizar had thought it could. The Fin's agility served him well, for a time at least. Neither Salizar's blade nor his skill was equal to Godric's, but he was determined not to yield. Using magic, he sent Godric's sword flying from his hand to fall on the cobbles some distance away.

Godric held up his hand in shock. "It's burned," he said, showing shock rather than dismay. He went quickly to retrieve his sword. "This too!" He exclaimed. In the light from the tavern door Salizar could see that, in his anger, he'd carelessly caused part of the hilt to melt, distorting its shape.

"I didn't mean to do that," Salizar said quickly, and concentrated all his power on the hilt until it had resumed its former contours. Godric stared for a moment at the sword, then said in astonishment, "You're a wizard!"

"Yes."

Godric's grin broke out like the sun coming up. Battle rage forgotten, He let the sword leave his hand. It hovered for a few seconds, spun rapidly in a deadly whirl before coming to rest, point down, balancing improbably on the cobbles, from where he took it once more into his hand. Salizar grinned too and they clapped one another hard on the back, calling each other "brother," their former fury transformed into exhilaration.

Salizar had known that there were wizards abroad in the world, not only himself and the seid women of his family, but he hadn't anticipated how gratifying it would be to find one. He had had no real friends in his life, and he threw his lot whole-heartedly in with Godric. He cared nothing for the cause of William the Norman, but without a backward glance he parted company with his ship in order to accompany his friend.

Salizar had no interest in the life of a soldier. He would fight when he must, but fighting for its own sake didn't draw him. Neither was he attracted by the trappings of the soldier. He had an ingrained admiration for fine weaponry, but the intricacies of the defenses muggles used to protect themselves from it bored him.

Nevertheless, they decided that it would be best if Salizar posed as Godric's squire. It was a role that Salizar found slightly demeaning, but in this larger world full of people speaking strange languages and following strange customs, he was satisfied to accept the position of an inferior, for the moment at least.

Salizar's chief nominal duty was the care and maintenance of Godric's armor. It had to be thoroughly cleaned, oiled and polished after each use. Godric drilled with his company each day, and engaged in practice sessions of swordplay to keep his skills up. Without magic Salizar would have found his duties extremely tiresome and time-consuming. As it was, everyone complemented Godric on the shine of his chainmail and helm, and Salizar enjoyed long walks by himself outside the city, away from the throng of an army and its orbit of followers. He was unused to the proximity of so many people and found it burdensome.

One evening they repaired to their favourite tavern in search of ale and fish stew. It was crowded and noisy. Most of the patrons were troops in William's army, but there were some merchants and town's folk, and at a corner table, two hooded figures Salizar thought might be a hag and a werewolf; at any rate both were eating from platters of raw liver.

Both Godric and Salizar, for different reasons, stood out. Godric's long hair and mustache marked him out as a Saxon amid the clean-shaven Normans, who also sported shaved heads, save for the distinctive tuft of hair left to cushion their war helms. Salizar was set apart both by his smaller stature and his unusual facial features.

Salizar saw that Godric was troubled. "It's the Duke," he said in response to Salizar's query. "I dined with his grace at midday. He's distressed by a lack of funds to equip and provision his army. He worries that if the winds do not become favourable soon, his plans may come to nothing if he can't find aid. I greatly wish to help, but…," he trailed off, gesturing vaguely with the small knife he was using to spear pieces of fish, then attacked his stew once more. At the corner table, the larger of the hooded figures drank from a goblet of something too deeply red to be any kind of wine Salizar or Godric had ever seen.

Salizar frowned. Godric's armor and proud bearing bespoke wealth and position, and Salizar had never seen the like of Godric's jewelled sword, but Godric would never give a straight answer about where the sword had come from, and never seemed to have much in the way of hard currency.

"Why does it matter to you?" Salizar asked.

"The Duke is my liege lord, you know this! I am sworn to him. I heard with my own ears the assertions of King Edward the confessor that the Duke should inherit his thrown. I was with Harold Godwinson when he swore to support the Duke's claim. The Duke has right on his side, and it is the duty of every man who owes him fealty to forward the Duke's cause."

Salizar shrugged. For him, kings and dukes were the stuff of stories and legends. Rule in his home had been by whoever was strongest in the village, and it was not uncommon for the folk to have some say in how they were governed. Godric's words sounded lofty and poetic, but they had no real impact for Salizar. He could see his friend's true distress though, and that was what mattered to him. At the corner table the smaller of the hooded figures was banging a goblet on the wood, demanding a refill.

Some days later Salizar sought Godric out. The Saxon had just finished a series of vigorous bouts on the practice field, and swung his step toward where Salizar waited. Even after so much exertion Godric's step was jaunty, and he swaggered a bit, proud of his victories, even if they added only to his own glory and not that of his duke.

Salizar, though not a soldier, admired Godric's skill and ebullience, and gave Godric one of his rare smiles. "I have something for you brother," he said. Godric held out his hand and Salizar dropped a purse heavy with coins into it. The delicate clinking sound was an odd counterpoint to the heavy clang of steel on steel all around them.

Godric's eyes widened and his face broke into a broad grin. "My brother!" He exclaimed in delight, "How came you by this?"

Salizar glanced around, but no one was in earshot. "You know I've been wandering round the countryside while you practice here. I came on a goblin family some days ago. When you told me of your desire to enrich your duke, I approached them. They set strict terms for its repayment, but the money's yours."

Godric's grin faded. "Is that wise my brother? Goblins have their own magic which is not to be lightly dismissed, and they are not known for their charity, particularly when it comes to the repayment of debt."

Salizar made a dismissive gesture. "You say your duke is bound to prevail in his campaign. War is a profitable affair for the victors. When this business is done you will have more than sufficient to pay them back."

Godric frowned. "War is not about spoils," he said rather sternly, "It's about glory and honor."

Salizar gave a cynical little laugh. "As you say, but glory and honor are usually washed down with a liberal draft of booty. You'll have no difficulty with the goblins."

"I do not fight for spoils," Godric insisted.

Salizar shrugged. This wasn't going quite the way he had expected. In his imagination, Godric had praised him for his resourcefulness and thanked him for his friendship. "You said you needed money, and I got it for you. If you don't want it I'll take the coin back to the Goblins," he said defensively. "I don't really care what happens to William."

Godric dropped his eyes to the purse in his hand. "No," he said, "I would like to offer this to the Duke. Thank you brother, you are a true friend." He slapped Salizar on the back.

The big Saxon had a personality to match his size, powerful, impressive, compelling. To Salizar, who had known so little approval in his life, Godric's praise was like strong wine. He would deal with the goblins when the time came, if it ever did. Soon they would be bound for England, far out of reach. Either way, Salizar knew there was always a way out of any tight spot, so long as you were sufficiently cunning to see it.


	4. Rowena on the Road

Chapter Four

Rowena detested bodily discomforts. It wasn't that she was soft, or a lover of luxury, rather the opposite. Having dedicated her life to the pursuit of scholarship, she felt matters of the body to be beneath her notice. As a child, she would look on with scorn as, each week, her pleasure-loving mother would conjure a person-sized tub in the middle of their small cottage, use magic to fill it with water, then stir it with her wand till it reached a temperature that filled their tiny home with steam. Now however, weary, saddle-sore, and aching from nights of sleeping on the cold ground, she felt her lofty ideals to be at an all-time low. She spent the last hour of daylight daydreaming about sufficient privacy in which to do a re-enactment of her mother's weekly program, and soak her various physical complaints away. She wouldn't act on her desire, but it helped pass the time to imagine it.

There was only one spare horse for riding, and she knew it was generous of the peddler's family to let her ride at all. She had been prepared to walk all the way to the coast, and as she slid down off the tired beast and hobbled bow-legged to begin helping to set up camp for the night, she thought she'd best return to walking in the morning. It was a tossup between competing aches.

As she reached to pull down a load of blankets from the wagon, Draugur, the unpleasant elder brother of the peddler's wife materialized at her side to help her. Tired and unfit though she felt herself to be, she would gladly have dispensed with his aid. He was a reticent, scrawny young man with an incongruously ruddy complexion, who seemed to like staring at her. He was one of the burdens she must bear in exchange for protection on the road.

The peddler's wife Elwyna had tried to shrug off Rowena's stated discomfort, but there was no denying that the woman looked shifty even as she attempted to reassure. "He travels with us," she had remarked unhelpfully. "My husband needs the help of a strong man in his work sometimes." This statement was so obviously absurd that it would have been rude to say anything, so Rowena said nothing. Feran, the peddler, was a strong and extremely capable man. The buying, selling and transportation of goods across Sussex with the aid of draft animals and a sturdy wagon seemed unlikely to require the help of someone as stringy and indolent as Draugur. If Elwyna had her secrets, Rowena did too, and so she didn't press the matter, out of respect as much as courtesy to her hosts.

Rowena had in fact come to like Feran and Elwyna very much. Feran was cheery, practical and efficient. Elwyna was kind, humorous, and sufficiently firm with her small children. Elwyna had a baby at the breast, and a boy of eight or so named Aidan.

With the inscrutable motives of a child, Aidan fixated on Rowena almost from the moment she joined their company. He was always hanging about, asking her questions, talking guilelessly of his childish fancies, and generally disturbing her peace of mind. As a guest, she couldn't openly snub him, and her attempts at indifference or stern looks seemed only to heighten his interest in her.

They were travelling generally eastward. Feran's custom was to move goods from French traders on the Sussex coast westward toward Wessex, and produce from the rich Sussex farm and pastures east to the sea coast. Sometimes this meant travelling on droverways that led from settlements toward outlying farms and pastures. At other times it meant traversing the great forest of Andredsweald, relying on the remnants of old Roman roads to speed them past the dangers of wolves, wild boar, and the occasional bear that dwelt in the forest.

The forest was sparsely dotted with small settlements, but folk there seemed so removed from the farmers and herders of the downs and coastal plains that Rowena was unsure whether they even spoke the same language. The people of these small settlements were as likely to fend them off with spears and pikes as to welcome them. After years of plying the same routes, Feran generally knew whom to avoid, but these isolated folk could be unpredictable, so he always approached with caution.

At the end of a particularly long day of travel, Feran chose to set up camp in a small clearing made by a burn off of the previous season. Lightning would cause occasional small fires, but the damp climate ensured things never became serious.

Having made sure that Draugur was occupied in helping Feran to cover the wagon's contents of grain against the damp of evening and early morning, Rowena set off to fill the water skins for the camp, and to have a little private wash by the stream. She had stuck by her self-imposed injunction against doing magic. She didn't warm the water before washing, nor lighten its weight as she trudged up hill, a heavy skin in either hand, back to where Elwyna had lit the cooking fire. Rowena tried not even to think about doing these things, but to her own disgust, she was unable to sufficiently discipline her mind.

The sun had gone below the horizon, and in the forest, twilight came easily. As Rowena crested the small hill, it took her a few seconds to take in what she was seeing. Feran and Draugur were busy at the wagon on the far side of the clearing. Elwyna, having got the fire nicely alight, was flinging the saddle blankets across some low shrubs to air. Needing both hands, she had placed the baby on a blanket. Having turned her back briefly, she didn't see the wolf that slunk silently toward the fire. Rowena's mouth opened in a silent scream as the wolf lunged toward the oblivious infant. Then, several things seemed to happen all at once. With no thought in her head of what to do, Rowena dropped the water skins and bounded forward. Sensing something, Elwyna turned, a saddle blanket still in her hand. Before either of them could do anything however, there was a piercing shriek, and a dark shape descended on the wolf like an arrow shot from the bow. Before either of the women knew what was happening, the wolf's right eye had been gouged out by the fierce claw of the raven. Howling with agony, the wolf turned and fled into the darkness under the trees.

Trembling with reaction, Rowena moved like a sleepwalker toward the baby, who, frightened by the noise, began a howling of her own. Galvanized into action, Elwyna dropped the blanket and lunged forward to snatch the baby up into her arms. Above the baby's head, the eyes of the two women met. Even through her shock, Rowena felt the knife of Elwyna's piercing gaze, which asked a silent question.

Rowena, her strength drained by reaction, let herself sink onto a mossy bolder and dropped her head briefly into her hands. She didn't want to look at Elwyna, who seemed to be asking, maybe even accusing. Finally however, she forced herself to look up. Elwyna was rhythmically stroking the baby into calm, while her gaze continued to rest on Rowena. Rowena saw that the older woman's eyes were not accusatory however, only intensely curious.

"How did you do that?" She asked.

"Do what?" Rowena asked limply. "I didn't do anything, it was the raven." But even as she said it, the word raven caught in her throat. Had she done something? Of course not. The raven had clawed at the wolf, not she. The raven had done it…, because…, because ravens…. She rubbed her index finger across the bridge of her nose, a habit she had when very distressed. She dropped her head into her hands once more. When she looked up again, she said mechanically, "It was a miracle."

Elwyna gave her a hard stare devoid of the awe miracles usually inspired, but said merely, "Say nothing to the men. We'll tell them the wolf tried for the raven who it took for injured, and got more than it bargained for."

Rowena spent an uncommonly uneasy night. Apart from the cold hard ground, she was troubled both by the events of the evening, and by the occasional strange sounds that came from the forest around them. She could identify many of the night sounds by now, but there were odd rumblings, growlings and keenings whose significance wholly escaped her, and which chilled her blood.

Toward dawn she fell into a dream in which the fair-haired woman was stirring a caldron over a fire, while sounds that might have been the roar of battle could be heard in the distance. The woman seemed not to hear them, and continued placidly stirring the caldron's contents, which were emitting turquoise steam.

It was not turquoise steam she awoke to however, but rather a driving rain and capricious wind. Feran decided that they should stay where they were till the worst of the weather passed. They were at a point where they would soon need to take one of the droverways to bypass a particularly dense growth of trees in the Andredsweald, and Feran was wary of bogging the wagon down in mud.

Rowena was unashamedly relieved to have a day of rest. Feran and Draugur had pulled the wagon well beneath a stand of leafy trees. Wrapped in all the clothing she possessed, and tucked in between sacks of grain, Rowena felt uncommonly warm, cozy and safe. She had retreated there with her precious Metamorph Magi, as much for the comfort of the weight of the book in her hands as for purposes of scholarship. It travelled with her, by far the most substantial of her meager possessions, wrapped carefully in waxed cloth to protect it from the elements. When asked about it by Elwyna, she had said only that it was an inheritance from her mother.

Draugur, as he often did, had taken himself off into the forest on whatever mysterious errands occupied him. Rowena was glad to know nothing about his business. Reading and daydreaming, she had lost track of where the others were. She had, in fact, dozed off, the heavy book open on her lap, her head lolling against a grain sack, when faint scrabbling sounds disturbed her. She stirred faintly and opened her eyes to see Aden's small face and mischievous bright eyes appear between the other sacks and bundles packed in the wagon. Seeing her eyes open, he abandoned his intention of scaring her awake with a blood-curdling scream, and settled for grinning at her and scrambling up onto the wagon bed, shimmying his way toward her. Sleepy and contented, she made no move to dissuade him.

On an inspiration, she whispered, "I'm hiding here. Let's make a game of seeing how quiet we can be." Aden was instantly interested by any use of the word game, and immediately put his finger to his lips and curled up at her feet, making himself into a tiny ball of warmth that she found oddly appealing. Her flighty mother had often allowed cats to share their small cottage as a way to keep rodents out of their modest food stores, and Rowena was reminded of them by Aden's small weight against her. The sound of the rain was soothing, and to her delight, the boy did actually doze off as she'd hoped.

Some time later, they both woke to find that the rain had lessened in intensity. Still drowsy, Aden attempted to climb into her lap. Still sleepy herself, she allowed it, shifting the book carefully aside. She was not a maternal woman, but something in her responded to the warm, confiding weight of the small boy in her lap.

He reached out a grubby hand toward the book. Instinctively, she grabbed his hand and rubbed it on the edge of her cloak lest her precious book be soiled. With a slightly less grubby fingertip, he touched the cover. "Will you teach me to read?" He asked ingenuously. "What does this shape mean?" He traced the first letter M in Metamorph, and looked up at her inquiringly.

"That's the letter M," she said drowsily, "it makes the sound mmm, like in mother."

"And this one?" His finger traced the E.

"That's the letter E," she replied automatically, "It can make lots of sounds, like…." Her voice trailed off, as a shot of adrenaline jolted her into full awareness. In her disciplined way, she showed nothing of her shock to Aden. "Trace the other letters you see." Dutifully, he traced all the letters of the title: Metamorph Magi, Enchant Your Way to Anonymity. "Now open the book if you want to." Her tone was neutral while her insides roiled with shock and vague alarm.

He opened the book, then made a sound of scorn and disappointment. "There's nothing here!"

Rowena rubbed an index finger across the bridge of her nose. She was doing some fast thinking. She was quite accomplished at fast thinking, and said calmly, "This is a very special book. You can only see what's written there if you know how to read."

"That's no fair! How can I know how to read if I can't see the writing?"

She turned the pages carefully back to the opening page, which held the spell necessary to make the book's true contents visible, visible that is, to a witch or wizard capable of reciting it. "Trace the first few letters on this page," she said. When he had done so, she leaned back against the grain sack. Anyone looking at the cover of this book should have seen the title: An Old Man's Guide to Great Rammer, and anyone looking at its pages should see pedantic passages concerned with verb conjugations, anyone, that is, who was a muggle. Therefore, Rowena was forced to the reluctant conclusion that Aden wasn't a muggle. She wasn't immediately sure why this fact should distress her so, but it did.

"Will you teach me to read?" He demanded. "Will you? Will you?"

"Yes, I will," she replied, "but not today. I hear your mother coming. Isn't it time to eat?" Distracted as she'd hoped, he scampered down out of the wagon in search of Elwyna.

They resumed their journey the next day, and Aden, in the way of little boys, seemed to have forgotten all about Rowena's book. Rowena, however, hadn't forgotten what he had seen. When they stopped to make camp, Rowena waited until Feran and Draugur had gone off in search of dry firewood, and produced the Metamorph Magi, as if by chance, from her meager possessions. Trying to sound as if it was a statement of no import, she said to Elwyna, "Aden saw my book yesterday. He seemed quite eager for me to teach him to read."

"Hm," said Elwyna distractedly, eyes closed as she nursed the baby.

"As I've said, this book belonged to my mother. It is beautifully illuminated. Would you like to see?"

Elwyna opened her eyes slowly, and glanced to where Rowena stood, holding the book open to a page half way through, which described, to any witch or wizard who had properly recited the opening spell, how to changed your ears into mushrooms. Elwyna's eyes opened wider in puzzlement. "The pages are blank," she said blankly.

Rowena closed the book and sat down on a fallen log across from Elwyna, staring at her intently. "The pages are blank only to a witch or wizard who hasn't recited the spell at the beginning of the book. It's an enchanted book. A muggle would see verses about grammar. Even a muggle who couldn't read would see the writing."

Elwyna sat up straight, disturbing the baby, who let out an outraged howl. Quickly righting things with the baby, Elwyna returned her attention to Rowena, and smiled broadly.

"I knew there was something about you! That raven, and there's something in your face…, I thought, but you didn't…." She reached out her hand to clasp Rowena's hand tightly. "I'm so glad to know this my sister!"

Rowena was moved by the woman's kindness. Of all the people who had had occasion to call her sister in the past several years, none had ever done so with such warmth and sincerity. The vague alarm she had felt yesterday now dissolved into a rare feeling of inclusion. She had spent so much effort hiding her nature. Here was one at least, with whom she could be truly herself.

As they neared the sea coast, they became aware of an increasing bustle and unnatural activity. Feran told them what it was. "You'll know Harold Godwinson had himself crowned King this winter past. The previous King's court was thick with Normans, and some say Edward promised the throne to William, Duke of Normandy, and they call Harold a usurper, a pretender with no right to be King. William has been running around all over the continent rounding up support for his claim. He even got the Pope to agree, and it's said that William will bear the Papal banner. William's forces are gathering across the channel, and wait only favourable winds to bring them here. King Harold Godwinson has massed all of his men here to await them."

Rowena felt a tightening in her belly. Why oh why had she come here, of all places, to the sight of what promised to be a terrible and bloody battle?


	5. Winds, Weather-Wisdom, and War

Salizar slumped against the wall in the small room he and Godric had shared for the past several days. It was in one of the cleaner and more prosperous inns in the village of Saint-Valery-Sur-Somme, where Duke William of Normandy had assembled his fleet. The village was overflowing with soldiers, and Godric was unclear how they had secured quarters of such relative comfort, but he was learning that it didn't always profit him to ask too many questions about exactly how Salizar made things happen.

Salizar was sitting on one of the straw pallets where they slept, letting his snake wind itself sinuously around his bare arm. Godric sat on the other pallet needlessly polishing his sword. It gleamed with its accustomed luster, but he needed to be doing something. They, like the rest of William's forces, had been bottled up in this village for days, by winds which seemed determined to flout the Duke's intention to sail across the channel and take England by force of arms.

The massed soldiers were beginning to move past restlessness into truculence. Brawls were becoming commonplace, and Godric spent most of his time preventing William's soldiers from inflicting themselves on the local folk in the ways that soldiers too often did. Salizar was almost always intolerant of the chaos and bustle of an army, but even Godric, who was more used to it, had been glad to take refuge in their tiny but private quarters.

Godric's attention was focused on the richly ornamented blade before him, but every now and then he slid a glance sideways to keep an eye on the snake. He disliked and mistrusted snakes, and it was only his deep fondness for Salizar, and the need not to give in to his fear that kept him from objecting to its presence in their room.

"You can't get that sword any more highly polished even with magic," Salizar said lazily. "Here, you could hold Madella." He reached his snake-covered arm toward Godric playfully.

"No thank you," Godric said with dignity, not allowing himself to flinch, "I'm well occupied." But he laid down his sword carefully, sighed, and looked around the small room. "Perhaps you would care for some local wine," he said neutrally, "I hear it's quite passable."

There was half a goblet full of the objectionable stuff sitting on top of the single chest that was the room's only furniture. Godric caused it to rise up, and move smoothly toward Salizar. It was a game they played often, and that they both liked. Salizar smiled as the goblet neared his face.

"Oh no," he said with a great show of deference, "Knowing how much you enjoy it, I couldn't possibly deprive you of it." Using his own magic, he exerted his force on the goblet to send it floating toward Godric.

"Oh, but you do look so thirsty. I beg you to refresh yourself." Godric pushed back, and the goblet stopped a foot from him, then began slowly to move in Salizar's direction. It stopped in mid-air between them as they both stared at it with expressions of intense concentration.

"No no," Salizar said through gritted teeth, "You are a man of refinement, poorly suited to mere ale; this rare vintage becomes you better than it does me." The cup wobbled a bit, but continued to hover between them.

"Out of courtesy to your more humble origins, I really think you need a bit of luxury more than I do."

This jab, which had been meant entirely with good nature, sat uneasily with Salizar's dignity, and instead of replying with words Godric could understand, he made a series of hissing and vowel sounds that meant nothing to Godric, but which caused Madella to slither off his arm and move slowly toward Godric. Godric clenched his own teeth together and hissed through them, "That is an unworthy trick my brother. Really, I must insist, have the wine." And with a mighty effort, he not only refused to let his concentration waver, but exerted a final thrust of power, and sent the goblet forcefully forward and upward, then overturned it onto Salizar's head. Salizar leapt up in shock, then burst into an uproarious laugh. He vanished the acrid stuff from his hair and clothing, then flopped back on the pallet.

"Well done!" He exclaimed. He had a rich deep laugh that seemed to come up from his belly, and it always made Godric smile to hear it.

Godric knew well by now that Salizar could be moody, sometimes even morose, but the Fin was also capable of a rich enjoyment of life, of jests, sport or games, and despite his unusual appearance, was also capable, when he chose, of an odd sort of charm. He knew how to make people like him when he wished to, and Godric was the first true friend of his life. Godric knew that most of their companions thought Salizar unapproachable, even sullen, but the swift intimacy that had grown between them upon learning that they were both wizards, had meant that Godric had come to know Salizar better than anyone. Godric knew there were depths in his friend that made him uneasy, but he also trusted Salizar's loyalty, admired his skill, and enjoyed the vigor and insouciance Salizar showed to those he trusted.

There was a knock on the door, and Godric opened it to reveal the inn-keeper bearing a tray with their meal. He thanked her with a graciousness that brought a surprised smile to her tired features. She laid the tray on the chest and disappeared through the door and back down the stairs.

"That's uncommon service," Godric said. "She must be a very busy woman these days."

Salizar shrugged, "I have a way with women," he replied idly, poking at the tray's contents. "She does make a passable bread, oh, and there's some kind of roast fowl today!"

After they'd eaten together in companionable silence for a time, Salizar asked, "And how does His Grace the Duke fair? You sat in on his council at midday didn't you?"

Godric frowned. "He's unhappy. The winds do not favour his cause, and he continues to be stretched when it comes to providing for his forces while he waits for the winds to turn." There was an awkward silence during which Salizar felt sure that Godric had more on his mind.

Salizar examined his friend's face with a keen eye. "There's more," he said with conviction.

"Don't try your mind tricks on me!" Godric almost snarled.

Salizar was taken aback. Though capable of being easily offended, he knew Godric well enough by now to know that his harsh words covered up deep distress. "I would not do that to you my brother," he said calmly. "What troubles you?"

Godric took a deep breath, then exhaled through his nose, in a characteristic gesture denoting frustration. "It is too much to tell," he replied lamely. "The Duke has many questions, uncertainties about what will happen. There have been rumors…, and he asks me…." His voice trailed off with unaccustomed vagueness.

Salizar watched him closely. "What do the omens say?"

Godric looked up, surprised. "Omens?"

"Yes. If you're uncertain, surely you've consulted the omens for guidance."

"No, I thought that a woman's art. My mother…." His voice trailed off once more, suddenly apprehensive about offending his friend, but Salizar only laughed. "The omens are for anyone with the sight. You know nothing of reading entrails, or the movements of animals?" Godric shook his head. "If it's answers you seek I can help you find them." Godric looked dubious. "Do you doubt me?"

"No no my friend, I know you to be a wizard of surpassing skill. If you say it is so, then it is so. It's only that I have many questions, and they aren't all to be answered by augury, but if you think you can help me…."

Salizar rose, urging Madella up his sleeve to wind herself about his torso, out of sight. "Come," he said holding out a hand to Godric, moved by his friend's obvious distress. "Come and I will teach you a thing."

The two wizards made their way down the stairs, through the crowded common room, out into the street filled with milling, restless men, and down a track that would take them out into open woodland surrounding the village. As they walked, Salizar told Godric to keep an eye out for certain herbs he would use to brew a tea that would aid them in interpreting signs. Godric tried, but in the end it was Salizar who found what they needed. When they had climbed to the top of a small hill that was covered in the thick grass of late summer but bare of trees, Salizar stopped. He conjured a small fire, heated the water in his flask, and dropped in the herbs he had collected. While the tea steeped, he told Godric to lie on his back and watch the sky. It was almost twilight.

As they lay side by side, Salizar began to explain some of the intricacies of ornothomancy. He described how the movements and calls of birds could be used to interpret events, present and future. Godric found he enjoyed hearing his friend speak thus. Godric knew Salizar to be a powerful wizard, possessed of much arcane lore learned from his mother. It was clear by the coherent and measured way the Fin spoke, that he enjoyed imparting what he knew, and had a gift for it.

After a time, Salizar said, "This is not a skill to be learned in a day, but if you know the larger patterns, you may yet see. The tea will help. It will also help me if you tell me what is the source of the uncertainty."

Relaxed by the solitude and the quiet of the woods, Godric sat up. As they drank the tea together, he explained. "There are mercenaries from the north in William's army. They tell that Harald Hardrada, King of Norway, also casts his eye upon England. There are rumors that he also will invade and fight Harold Godwinson for England's crown. Without knowing where each of these armies rests, or when the winds may turn in his favour, William is distressed. He has sent out couriers, but they have not returned. He doesn't know how long he can hold his forces here, or how long he should, or even whom he will be fighting, or where. If I had information for him to ease his mind…." Again, Godric's voice trailed off in that disconsolate way that so ill became a man normally confident and commanding. Salizar looked hard at him and saw that there was still more, but forbore to press his friend.

"Drink the tea," he said only, passing the flask to Godric. As he took it, Godric was reminded of their game with the wine goblet. As he took the flask, offered from the hand of his friend, he smiled, grateful for one person who was sure to stand by him in a world full of confusion and uncertainty.

After a time, they lay back once more, and turned their attention to the sky. Knowing that Salizar required concentration, Godric didn't speak. He watched the sky keenly, trying to interpret as Salizar had taught him. He felt his consciousness expanding in a way he'd never experienced before, and thought he sensed patterns and vast sweeping movements of fortune, but couldn't be sure what it meant.

Finally Salizar sat up slowly and rubbed his eyes. Then he closed them, and sat utterly still as though in a trance. When he opened his eyes, his expression was serene.

"I have seen," he said quietly, but with an undercurrent of excitement, "Present, and some way into the future. The rumors are true. The King of Norway is even now readying to sail for the north of England. Harold Godwinson's army is in the south however, waiting for William. The winds are about to turn in William's favour."

When Godric's face brightened, Salizar said, showing impatience for the first time, "Don't you see? If William sails now, he'll encounter Harold Godwinson's army encamped at full strength, ready for him. If he waits, The King of Norway will land in the north and draw him away. Then, William will be free to reach English soil unchallenged, entrench himself, live off the land, and wait for whoever triumphs in the north, to come south with their depleted army, to fight another battle after a long forced march. The worst thing William could do right now is to sail for England. If he wants a sure victory, he must wait."

"When the wind changes, he will not wait. He's impatient to be underway; he will sail as soon as he may."

There was a tense silence. "Does your counsel carry so little weight with your Duke then?"

"How could I offer this counsel to my Duke? How could I tell him I've come by this information? By watching the flight of birds?" Godric's frustration caused a note of scorn to enter his voice.

Always sensitive to perceived slights, Salizar's voice hardened as he said, "Why does he keep you so close then, to consult on his wardrobe?" He had spoken on impulse, but the last thing he'd expected was for Godric's expression to crumple, and for his friend to turn away. Before Salizar knew what he was about, Godric gathered up the smoldering remains of the fire with magic, and whirled them through the grass, causing the dry stalks to blow into quick flame. It was an act of undisciplined temper that shocked Salizar. He often didn't bother with a wand, but in the haste of the moment, fearing a conflagration, he whipped it out and sent a jet of water around the clearing, extinguishing the flames. Dealing with Godric wasn't going to be nearly so simple. He sat, alert but still and silent, as Godric leapt to his feet and prowled around the desiccated clearing. When Godric finally returned to Salizar and flopped down on the ground once more, Salizar still waited, not speaking until Godric's reluctant gaze met his.

"Now will you tell me the rest my brother?"

Godric, the edge of his anger abated, let out an immense sigh that came up by the roots. "It would be a relief to tell it all in a way." There was a long silence in which Godric tried to figure out where to start.

"My father died when I was very young," he began finally. "My mother was a powerful witch, and we prospered. I am a wizard of course, but the life of a Druid or Mage didn't appeal to me. I was drawn to soldiering, and found a place in the household of Harold Godwinson, one of the richest and most powerful men in the kingdom. He respected my fighting skill, and the occasional aid my magic could offer. We never spoke openly of my abilities, but we both understood that he valued them, and understood that it was unwise for him to openly harbour a wizard.

"I was nearly sworn a Housecarl, made one of his elite private guard, the highest rank of soldier in his household, but always he found a reason to delay. Then, I accompanied him on the journey that took him eventually into the Duke William's household.

"Harold and I fought at the Duke's side, were honoured by him for our deeds in battle, fitted out with the finest his armory could provide. Harold seemed to value the Duke's favour. When he departed for England, he bid me to remain with William, to swear fealty to him, to remain as Harold's eyes and ears in Normandy. I did as Harold asked. Having sworn myself to William, I'm now honour-bound to uphold his cause, to fight at his side. What he wants from me in council though…. There I sit, the only Saxon in a council full of Normans. What can he want from me but information to use against Harold. So what am I to do? Following the instructions of Harold has led me into the role of his betrayer. I try to tell William only those things that anyone would already know; how Harold fights, who will support him…. I am sworn to forward William's cause, but does this mean I will face my own countrymen in battle? What am I to do?"

Godric's voice cracked with emotion on the last words, and Salizar dropped his gaze, unsure what to say or do. He desperately wanted to help his friend, but such complicated matters of honour and obligation were out of his range of experience. Instead he chose to focus on practical matters.

Leaving Godric, his forehead resting on his up-drawn knees, Salizar prowled around the edges of the clearing till he found what he was looking for. When he returned, he produced another small fire, filled the flask with water, added the herbs he had gathered, and let it sit by the fire to steep. This was no tea for divination or contacting the other world, but simply a tea to soothe the nerves.

"What do you want?" Salizar asked into the silence.

"I want to be clear of all this intrigue, to know what right is, and to do it with honour."

"But right now, right at this moment, what do you want?"

Without stopping to think, Godric answered, "I want to go home."

"To England."

"Yes."

"Well, that you will surely do, it's just a question of when, and what you will find when you get there. How will Harold greet you? Will you be welcomed back into his household if you arrive in company with William's invasion fleet?"

"I don't know."

"Did you never wonder?"

"I never thought about it. Harold asked me to stay, to swear fealty to William; it seemed like the simple and obvious thing to obey him."

Salizar was reluctant to speak his next words, but felt that he must. "You don't think Harold saw this moment coming?"

"What do you mean? He swore an oath to William, he swore to uphold William's claim to the English throne two years ago. Since then…, well…, I can only think that…, he…, changed his mind, or something happened of which I'm not aware. Maybe the late King Edward had a deathbed change of heart. People do."

"Did you hear Harold's oath to William with your own ears?"

"Well, no. I was there, but the cathedral is large, and few actually heard what was said, but that is how Duke William tells it."

Salizar sighed in frustration. He never ceased to be amazed at Godric's belief that everyone held honour as dearly as Godric himself. "Does it not seem more likely that either William invented the contents of that oath, or that Harold simply said what was politic at the moment?" Seeing the anger on Godric's face, Salizar added quickly, "Or perhaps it is as you said, and the late King on his deathbed decided to name Harold as next King. However it came about, you've been left in a terrible situation. Of course you don't want to fight your own countrymen in the name of an invader."

"But what am I to do? Either way I am a traitor."

Salizar sighed again, but only inwardly. Talk of honour and traitors was of little consequence to him, but there was one matter that could not be lightly swept aside. "There is something else to consider," he said. "It has now been three times that you have found funds to help William maintain his forces. There is now a considerable debt owing, from William to you, and from you, or more properly I, to the goblins. If you are killed in battle, they will look to me, who have nothing with which to pay them. If you are not killed by the defenders, might William not find it easier to see that you, a Saxon, are killed, than he would find it to pay you the money he owes you?"

Godric looked shocked. "He would not do such a thing!" He exclaimed, but his eyes slid away from Salizar's. Both men knew how ruthless William could be. The Duke's power was not handed to him; he had won it after years of fierce and unscrupulous fighting.

"If you come to him after he has triumphed in battle, and all England is his to parcel out, I have no doubt he will honour his debts, but battle may be something you should avoid."

That brought Godric's head up sharply. "Run out on a fight?" He said fiercely.

This time Salizar allowed his irritation to show. "All right then, which side do you wish to fight on? Who would you prefer to kill?" Godric slammed his fist onto the ground, but said nothing.

Salizar picked up the flask and held it out, saying more mildly, "Here, this will help. You can decide about the killing later, but there is one matter we should decide on now. The wind is about to change in William's favour. If it does, he will sail, and encounter Harold's army, fresh, well fed, rested, and at full strength. Then, the winner of that battle will have to deal with Hardrada of Norway. If William was forced to wait, Harold would have time to learn of Hardrada's invasion, hustle his army up north to fight him, and not be there to greet William's forces. William could land unopposed, and wait for the victor in the north, exhausted and depleted, to fight him. He doesn't know it, but waiting will serve William far better than haste."

"William will not be dissuaded. If the wind changes, he will sail, and I will not be the one to argue it with him."

"You need not. We can prevent the wind from changing, keep it blowing as it has been, and ensure a victory for William, which will be a victory for us. You were right when you said the goblins will not let go of a debt, and I don't fancy spending the rest of my life eluding their magic."

Godric's eyes widened. "Prevent the wind from changing? Have you then the weather-wisdom?"

"Yes. My mother was a powerful witch, the Vala for our village. She had wisdom in many things, and she taught me. You are a powerful wizard, I have good reason to know this, but there are many applications of magic that you have no knowledge of, just as there are many things about the wider world that I have no knowledge of. This is not a slight matter. This kind of magic, sustained as it must be for many days, would be beyond even my skill, had I not another powerful wizard to help me. If you will let me teach you, together we can do it.

Later, Godric would wonder whether it was the tea, or the clarity of Salizar's arguments, or merely his own deep weariness of trying to determine the right course to steer in this confusing world, but finally he nodded. Part of him worried that he might be contributing to the invasion of his home, but massive forces were already moving in the world, and it seemed as though invasion might be inevitable no matter what he that he had allowed himself to be manipulated by too many, he was ready to act.

The days that followed were some of the most demanding of his life. He had endured rigorous and sometimes injurious training in combat and skills of the body, but they seemed to pale into insignificance compared with the exacting training he now received. Despite the profound moral ambiguity he felt, he took a fierce enjoyment in, for the first time in his life, bringing all of his considerable will and force to bear on the use of his own magic. It had always been something he could do, something that often solved problems or made things easier, but it had set him apart as well, and he'd always exercised caution about it. Now however, the demanding skills Salizar taught him brought out the full strength and power of his gifts, and he found it more satisfying than anything he'd ever done before.


End file.
